


carved from stars

by Ceryna



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: M/M, Mythology - Freeform, Statue au, author is back on her bs metaphors!!!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:01:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26799247
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ceryna/pseuds/Ceryna
Summary: Atsumu is hungry for secrets the gods could not keep hidden, and he finds them in a boy made of porcelain.crossposted from mytwitter
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 8
Kudos: 56





	carved from stars

**Author's Note:**

  * For [min_mintobe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/min_mintobe/gifts).



> brought to you by:  
> \- the GRIS game soundtrack  
> \- a noragami manga reread  
> \- too many space and art metaphors to count

i. 

Kiyoomi cannot remember the last time he saw the sun. 

He remembers how the sunlight felt against his skin. Warmth sweeping up over his fingertips, stretching to cup his chin, dusting lemon and yuzu over his tongue. 

The sunlight was lovely, that day. 

But, as all good things do… it did not last.

⋘✩⋙⋘✩⋙⋘✩⋙  
  


Kiyoomi cannot remember a time before the wish. 

He was born from a wish. From stardust he formed, between stars he fell, and under the sun, he rose. Kiyoomi was flying before he knew how to walk. 

The thing he did not know, was never told… is that if you’re born from a wish, you cannot make wishes yourself.

To wish… was forbidden.

Kiyoomi always wished a little too much. 

⋘✩⋙⋘✩⋙⋘✩⋙

  
  


Kiyoomi cannot remember who he wants to be, anymore.

He wished to be understood, to be held, to be unafraid— of what was it?

Oh. He’s forgotten that, too.

He’s been here long enough to forget— wherever _here_ is. 

The film drapes over him, blanketing and blurring. It shields him from the world, protects him from the fragments of memories that linger beyond his fingertips. 

He has no need for things out of reach. He shouldn’t need them, whatever they are. But here, where silence persists and time does whatever it continues to do, Kiyoomi wonders.

If his eyes were not stone, could he see beyond the film? Would he come to life if the curtains around him were thrown open? 

And when the fabric drifts below him, light washing over his face, would he remember?

⋘✩⋙⋘✩⋙⋘✩⋙

It’s strange, Kiyoomi thinks, to be shoved into the very stone from which he was sculpted. Carved from the dust of the universe, brought into existence by the gods themselves, and to be shut into a mold that does not fit.

One that never has— one that never will. 

⋘✩⋙⋘✩⋙⋘✩⋙

Kiyoomi thinks he remembers who he _was._

His skin has always been the color of porcelain. Ivory, stained with veins humming cobalt and glazed by the stars themselves. In the rivers, his hazy reflection: dark curls tangled in wind and rain, ink dripped twice over his brow. 

Long, bony fingers— musician’s hands. A smile, askew enough he kept it hidden. Eyes of obsidian— too sharp and shrewd for their liking.

He was born with an itch under his fingertips and an empty hourglass for a heart. Perhaps he was fated to never have enough time— to forever be looking for something to fill that space.

_That's_ what he wished for— something to chase the hollowness away, something to fill it with lemon and yuzu and the sunlight he loves— 

Stone groans. It whispers of a curse too strong and a boy even stronger. And for the first time, Kiyoomi can move a finger. 

  
  
ii.

  
  


Atsumu cannot sit still. 

Spun from the finest bronze, he is full of fluid movements unable to be contained by the mold fashioned for him. Quick on his feet, and even sharper with his words. 

He is made from stories he doesn’t have the patience to read— but he listens, and he remembers. 

Gods are just as fickle as the humans that depend on them. And the humans that don’t depend on them will be branded as lost. 

Atsumu isn’t sure what stories about the gods he should believe. And while he may not know where he’s going, he’s never been lost. 

⋘✩⋙⋘✩⋙⋘✩⋙

Atsumu knows the methods of the gods are not meant for mortal eyes. 

He knows. He may not see the strings of fate, but there are times he thinks he can feel them. Tangled around his fingers, woven around his wrist… tripwires, knocking into his ankles.

It has taken him many bruised knees and stubborn, bloodied palms before he learned to avoid them.

The gods may praise benevolence, but their kindness is not free.

So he listens for the strings of fate. Listens for that lovely, eerie jangle of kagura suzu bells. 

And before he chooses a path, before he sets his foot down, if he hears them ring… he will walk away to spite them.

⋘✩⋙⋘✩⋙⋘✩⋙

  
  
Atsumu is listening for kagura suzu bells when he hears something else.

The sound is quiet, but it thuds in his ears with the weight of a taiko drumbeat. It sneaks up on him, soft piano notes pressing against his ribs, thumbing over his breastbone with not-quite-words.

If he had to guess, the words would be, _I miss you._

Can you miss someone you’ve never met?

Atsumu isn’t sure, but he thinks he’d like to find out. 

⋘✩⋙⋘✩⋙⋘✩⋙  
  


Atsumu wouldn’t describe himself as greedy. 

No, that’s a word too loaded by pride and indulgence. He is simply hungry. 

For every bit of knowledge, every skill he can reach with his hands and claim for himself— and even the ones beyond his reach. 

Maybe he is insatiable. Maybe he is in a folk tale, being made an example of. And, if he chooses to believe in past lives… maybe, in every incarnation, he has wanted beyond his means. 

He's watched things be stolen from him, watched them slip through his fingers— sand in an endless hourglass.

He may never have enough time, but he’s done losing to it.

⋘✩⋙⋘✩⋙⋘✩⋙

Atsumu has heard enough _I miss yous_ to become desperate.

They have grown more frequent, but are losing their weight. As if the arms that carry the taiko strikes are missing the drums, moving further and further away. 

If stars make a sound as they fall, dripping from the heavens with the weight of wishes… this is the sound that hovers beyond him. 

It fizzles at the corners of his awareness, idling in and out of existence. _Beckoning._

He’s reminded of the stories, of all the myths and not-quite-realities he’s heard about. All the lessons to be learned, all the kagura-suzu bells he’s ignored— and chases after it.

Atsumu is hungry for secrets the gods could not keep hidden, and he finds them in a boy made of porcelain. 

iii. 

Kiyoomi’s hand is… cold.

His fingers stretch, joints whispering as the marble around them crumbles into dust. The digits curl in, fingernails skimming skin, bone, and stone— and flex out, shattering the alabaster around his wrists.

Cracks split along the shell over his forearms, shards raining down below. Surely they must be piling up on his feet, but he can’t feel them yet.

How long has it been, since he has felt something more than himself? How long has he been kept where even starlight could not reach? 

The casing around his shoulder cracks, fissure lines creeping up his neck to loosen crystals blocking his ears, the fossils at his mouth. 

Kiyoomi drifts his free hand up. Digs his fingers into stone. And nudges a slab free.

It falls to the floor with a clatter, breaking upon impact. The sound is loud enough to destroy the silence— and Kiyoomi pries away another slab. 

Clay and curses smash against the most resilient of hopes. They are no match for a boy born from the night sky, galaxies of wishes inked into his skin. 

He tears the mask of minerals from his face, wrests his shoulders from their anchors, brushes dust from the corners of his eyes— and blinks them open.

Kiyoomi takes a shuddering breath. He drags his legs forward, through the remnants of plaster until he stands, unbound, shivering in a frayed blue summer yukata. 

His fingers— as long and bony as he remembered— grasp the filmy sheet around him. 

They twist into the material, which he thinks is silk— and tug sharply down. 

Fabric falls. Kiyoomi does too, tumbling from the pedestal and barely remembering to stop himself from crashing to the floor. 

It’s good he learned to fly before walking— the edges of his mouth curve up. 

He… _remembers._

“Miss me?”

Kiyoomi shakes his head, freeing a mop of curls from the sheet. 

A boy stands there, a small, squarish sun clutched in his hands, and he shines it at him.

“I missed you?”

Perhaps Kiyoomi does not remember everything… but he doesn’t think he could forget eyes like summer dandelions, glimmering in a sunrise. 

“S’no question ‘bout it.” The boy extends his arm— a hand of polished bronze— and pulls Kiyoomi to his feet. “I missed ya too, y’know,” he says with a grin— 

A grin that promises enough lemon and yuzu to last a long, long time.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed the story (^^)
> 
> comments help fuel my writing! i'd love to know your favorite line, what you liked about the story, or if you'd like to see more fic like this from me! ^^ 
> 
> I'm on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/Ceryna_writes)!


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